


An Acquired Taste

by neverevesangel



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-25 00:35:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20367715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverevesangel/pseuds/neverevesangel
Summary: Crowley takes the angel to a Jazz club.





	An Acquired Taste

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure, I have never been to such a club myself. Whoops. I suppose this story could be considered AU as it assumes that Aziraphale does not drink alcohol other than wine.

_  
_“No,” Aziraphale said firmly. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh come _ on_, angel. It’ll be _ fun_.”

“Any establishment with a … a … a _ temptress _ longing over the entrance is no place for my kind. For heaven’s sake, Crowley. I’m grateful for the invitation but do take us somewhere respectable.”

“Very respectable place, this,” Crowley insisted and swung his legs out of the Bentley. “Glenn Miller played here once, did you know that? Now come on, or I’ll lock you in the car while I go and have a drink.”

“You wouldn’t,” Aziraphale muttered indignantly but apparently he wasn’t so sure after all because he did get out quickly. “_Lift home_ you said.”

The demon grinned. “I’ll take you home eventually. But first, we drink.”

_ Mitzi’s Ginger _was a Jazz club - and quite a prestigious one at that - and there was indeed the backlit shape of a very pretty woman draped over the front door. A bouncer attempted to approach them when they passed through but thought better of it when Crowley shot him a pointed glare.

“They know you here?” Aziraphale asked nervously.

“Yeah. Sort of.”

Double doors swung open and they entered the smoky heart of the club, an intricate labyrinth of shaded corners and crimson drapes, with dimmed light from sources you never saw. Someone was playing the piano.

“Well?”

“It’s not so bad,” Aziraphale conceded. Clad in his customary cream-coloured suit (complete with vest and bowtie), he looked ridiculously out of place in the gloom. “I’d like to sit somewhere close to the stage. The pianist is _excellent_.”

Crowley put a hand on Aziraphale’s back and gave him a light shove just to make him squirm. “You go and find a table then. I’ll fetch us something to drink.”

Under different circumstances, Crowley would have taken the opportunity to flirt with the exceptionally handsome bartender (who took his orders with professional flourish) but today his mind was elsewhere.

_ I brought an angel to a Jazz club to indulge in drinks and slow dancing_, he told himself as he watched Aziraphale from across the room and felt something warm and excited coil in his treacherous stomach. _ Another victory for Downstairs, a stain on his divinity. Hail Satan and everything. _

He ordered a straight drink for Aziraphale just to spite him.

There were no words at all on his mind when he returned to the angel, but it was just as well since Aziraphale was watching the pianist. He slid a glass of cognac on the rocks across the table and the angel curled his fingers around it silently.

Crowley narrowed his eyes in irritation. _ Come on, you never drink hard liquor. _

But Aziraphale lifted the glass and sipped from it without batting an eye. If the cognac bothered him, he didn’t show, his expression one of perfect serenity. Crowley kept starting because the angel still had his eyes fixed on the stage and seemed wholly preoccupied. He noticed how there was an almost imperceptible shadow tracing the angel’s cheekbone and how the artery in his neck was visible from this angle, beating steadily.

“I know why you took me here,” Aziraphale said suddenly.

_ How could you if I don’t even know myself? _

Crowley arched one eyebrow at him and pretended to be totally indifferent. “Oh?”

“Yes. Well. You are, er, trying to, ah … _ tempt _ me.”

“As you yourself pointed out on numerous occasions, that’s what I _ do_,” Crowley gave back drily.

“No.” Aziraphale was visibly flustered now. “This is different. And you know I don’t drink, well … whatever _ this _is. It burns horribly in my throat.”

Crowley smirked despite himself. And here he thought his provocation had been in vain. “_That _ is very expensive cognac. An acquired taste. It takes some getting used to.”

“A bit like you, then,” Aziraphale said quietly.

It was meant to be a joke. Crowley didn’t laugh but he did drop his glass and it landed on the table with a dull _ thunk _. There was a tense silence until Aziraphale cleared his throat awkwardly.

“My point is,” he said, staring stubbornly at his feet, “my point is that I know you are trying to, well, s-seduce me.”

“Why would you think that?” Crowley mumbled.

_ We don’t talk about this, angel. Not ever. What are you doing? _

Aziraphale swallowed but he wasn’t letting it go. “I may be an angel, but I’m not _ that _ naive. I know why people come to these, ah, _ establishments_. And I know the way you look at me, Crowley. When you think I won’t notice. I have not been discorporated in centuries because for some reason you are always there to intervene.”

“Shouldn’t you be thanking me then, inssstead of complaining?” Crowley was dimly aware that he’d been hissing again, but the alcohol was beginning to get to his head and he could care less about fixing his tongue. All he knew was that he had to change the subject, and fast.

“No! Well, yes, of course, but - I mean _ you _always insist - that’s not the point, Crowley!”

“_What issss the point then_?”

Aziraphale froze and blinked, and then he inhaled deeply and brushed one hand across his face. “The point is,” he replied calmly, “that nothing can ever come of it. You know that, don’t you?”

The angel’s tone was almost gentle now and Crowley hated it. Hated how it made his stomach flutter and contract. He glared at his empty glass and it refilled promptly. “Courssse I know,” he snapped and tossed the Scotch back in one go before jumping to his feet unsteadily. “You comin’ or what?”

He was already half-way to the exit when the angel slowly got up, straightened his waistcoat and set out to follow him.

“An acquired taste,” Aziraphale said, very quietly and just to himself, and the smile on his lips was a little wistful and a little sad.


End file.
